Not All of Me Will End
by hell-whim
Summary: Nothing remains of her but what must be left behind. [Post-Canon, Character Death, Cancer]
1. who lives

**Notes:** I owe a huge debt of gratitude to 1stTimeCaller for her amazing beta job. This story wouldn't be what it is without her insights. Love to maiisbuns.

 **who lives**

Smoke gathers beneath the ceiling's blackened tin tiles—a match for her mood, and for the roiling green clouds that gather low over the city. Riza could add a little cirrus stream of her own, but all she has is the cigarette holder to tap against her lighter, ivory clacking on silver again and again. They've been waiting nearly an hour, stiffly side by side and still in uniform, as though either of them will be going back to work afterward.

"What's the point of rank if I can't use it to get anywhere?" Roy sighs, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, and he smiles at her. He doesn't know the way that she knows. "Are you alright?"

"Of course," she says. "I'm sure it'll only be a few more minutes."

A wave of vertigo ripples upward between her eyes—and the half-filled lobby blurs into a slumbering beast, churning, burbling, gasping with thickened lungs. The steady heartbeat of patients marching the corridors and tangled in their IV lines, the thrumming of each slippered footfall that plays her broken nerves to insentience—she calms by pressing her fingernails deep into her palms, carving long purple furrows across the spongy flesh.

The nurses chitter like insects across the floor, hiding their oddly jointed limbs beneath dark blue dresses, pressed leather boots, starch-white aprons crossed over the back. Hats pinned to hair carefully pulled into uniform curls—such dreadful little halos. One of them approaches, with black eyes and pin-pricked red lips and a slithery grayed tongue.

"Captain Hawkeye. Doctor Hauer apologizes for the delay. He's prepared for you now."

Roy's hand on her back is not subtle or standard politeness—he has caught her twice in the last month from falling back down the stairs. Something in the exertion of climbing would send a sheet of foggy blackness across her vision and then, just as her fainting spell during the commemoration parade, Riza would groggily wake to find herself propped up by his steadying arm. Even now they are keeping to a slow pace, passed on every fifth step by an annoyed orderly or harangued custodian.

Doctor Hauer's name is at last set on the glass of his door, in careful white etching—he's new from the north, highly recommended and with a fellowship purchased directly from the führer's considerable coffers. At least, from all this meaningless mess, Central City Hospital can boast of retaining the best diagnostician in the country. He won't look like much in print, but she can imagine, somewhere in a distant memorial garden, his stately stone glower presiding over a mossy plaque dedicated to his advances in various medicinal sciences. Such men are almost never properly paid tribute in life, so she can find some comfort in knowing she probably wouldn't have lived to see it regardless.

"I'm sorry," he says, no preamble, no offer of tea, "but it is exactly as we feared."

"Cancer."

"Yes."

Riza nods. She knew, in all the ways that Roy did not, and his fingers tighten painfully around hers.

"Are you certain?" he asks.

"I spoke to my colleagues in West City and East, and they both concurred with my initial reading. The shadowing on the film clearly indicates wide-spread metastasis."

"What does that mean?"

Hauer glances at Roy and then back to Riza. She can, to some extent, respect his desire to keep her the center of the conversation—but it feels so unnecessary. Like the broken beaks of a thousand furious birds, rain begins to peck at the glass behind the good doctor's head.

"Although the size of the mass in your lungs leads me to conclude that it is the originating site, your previously described symptoms—dizziness, hallucinations, blackout spells—strongly suggest that there may be a mass in your brain as well."

He points, with alarming accuracy for not even bothering to turn his head, at the tacked-up transparency of her chest. The closest she will ever get to witnessing the true complexity of her own desiccated husk, save for running a knife beneath her ribcage and peeling back what flesh is found there.

"It also appears to have reached your lymph system. We could draw blood to confirm the presence of malignant cells moving throughout your body, but at the current rate of growth, in a matter of months…"

A twisting grimace.

"As they say, truth will out."

"Is that—is that how long…?"

Hauer's eyes are a brackish-green, painted with flecks of yellow by an unsteady hand. In one eye, the sclera holds a streak of bright red, and the pulse it hides could almost be visible, she thinks, by changing the angle of her observation. His left eye flickers first, followed by the right a quarter-millisecond after.

"It's difficult to say with any accuracy. The disease process is unique to each person."

"So then what's our next step?"

She is not trying to memorize this moment or even Roy's face—she is merely observing the cool milky sheen of his skin, the youthfully short lines bundling above his brows, the click and clack of his tongue and teeth as he seeks a futile reprieve. They—Hauer and Roy, and _not_ Riza, who folds up her hands in her lap and watches Roy's face without feeling the slightest change in her own—discuss medication and surgery and radium therapies with such naive hope cutting their lips to ribbons.

"No," Riza says. The birds have left the window—for all its crescendo, the storm was brief and will have left only a discomforting haze to line the streets and sidewalks.

"Riza, there's still options—"

"Not for me."

"But they've had success—"

"In skin cancers. And most of the patients went on to develop a different cancer and died anyways, after a few years."

He wants to protest, his eyes a pair of open wounds twisted wide by the gears of coming grief. The clouds have cleared from his side first—he sits in a shower of sunlight and reaches to her, delicately seizes her hands and pulls them to his lap. They stand sharp as plucked feathers against the dark wool of his uniform.

"I read the same studies as you," she finishes.

"But it _could_ work."

It is difficult to explain the logic of what remains so… _obvious_. Hauer has withdrawn, content to study the bleed and retain his commentary. Riza, in a half-remembered instinct for solace, runs her narrow thumbs across the wide expanse of Roy's palms.

"Cut me open," she says, unblinking, by force of love and misery willing the certainty to bridge the empty air between them, "and scoop out what they can. Then weeks under one of those awful lamps or even worse—a tube of radium sewn up inside me until it burns through."

He shakes his head as she speaks—his imagination is well-stocked with atrocity and no doubt illustrates each word with a facsimile of what its truth might be.

"Is that what you want for me?"

Ruined by all of it—torn open and shredded by the indifferent abyss. She sees him as one might see a lone telegraph pole with its lines all cut loose, fading fast into a horizon that welcomes no minute alteration. He squeezes her fingers, trying to coerce heat from his calloused skin into her. He speaks very quietly—not a whisper, but an inability to draw sufficient breath for each word.

"I want you to live."

She smiles, somewhat, tempering the cruelty with a cold sigh and a tremor which passes, without origin or end, between their joined hands.

"Well," she says, "I'm not going to."

Roy's car has broken down again, so they take a black taxi back to Central Command. The driver seems to sense their disquiet and leaves the divider up, assuming possibly that they have a need to talk—but they only stew in a long silence. The rain begins again, and ends, and then restarts and finally quits the greened sky for yellowing pastures somewhere south.

"Why didn't you tell me about the hallucinations?" Roy asks. He speaks to the closed window, hands curled to fists in his lap, brow knit, frowning, eyes darting from face to face when they stop near a crowd. He will want a solution from his frustration and will find nothing.

"I don't know," Riza says. "It only happened a few times. I thought sometimes it hadn't happened at all."

Anger rolls from his shoulders in cutting waves. It radiates, and she wants to lay her hands along the span of his back, to absorb his heat and make it her own, to become the yawning, roaring void that has opened inside him: a little well of sadness, which seeks an ocean to drown it.

"I'm sorry."

Their attendance at Grumman's table is required, and she tells him immediately, wishing no delay to the plans that now must follow. He rages, of course, stalking the edge of his favorite Aerugian rug as he narrows his sights on the appropriate prey.

"I _built_ that hospital!" he snarls, expelling foul breath with the lie. "Every brick belongs to me, and if they think they can reject _my granddaughter_ for treatment—"

"I don't want treatment," Riza says, turning her fork to cut into a fig. "I made the choice."

He softens to speak to her, just as always—she is glad, again, that he had no choice but to give her up as assistant. Familial affection is smothering at any distance.

"But, my dear heart, you're far too young to give up."

"No, I'm not," she says, arranging her plate and cutlery for the ease of the maids, who will sweep the room spotless once they've gone through to the library, each night making such quick work of erasing all traces of their disorderly occupation. "I'm going to die."

Grumman rages through the nightcap, malcontent as always with realities outside his making. Roy won't defend her outright, but he's far enough to her side to ignore Grumman's attempts at alliance. Riza nurses a tiny glass of port, happy to let silence be her best answer.

She is the last to leave the library but stops short of climbing the first step. Roy will have found a room for himself somewhere in the east gallery—still trapped by the old etiquettes. They will not share a bed under this roof, which seems a trifling thing and yet—she can almost _relish_ the possession of feeling again—some silly part of her is hurt. No matter that they've made love before, or that long before the tendrils of this nightmare began to tug at her ribcage, they had made such public promises.

Grumman had demanded an announcement and then disseminated one himself, when neither of them proved obliging. An alert of required celebration, and the drab party that followed—she thinks she still can smell the smoke of dusty candles and the flowers left too close to open flame. Smoke like meat, like the rabbits she hung inside that big hollow oak and the door she'd made of bark to cover, to pack with clay and come back later when Father lost his patron and they'd gone three weeks without anything but bread and foraged apples—

Riza curls her fingers around the ugly finial at the base of the bannister, feeling the weakness drain through her grip. There is no smoke here. The engagement party was months ago, and all its guests have gone home to sleep. Very carefully, she slides down to sit on the last carpeted step.

This is not the main staircase of the house—the grand incline that sweeps from the gilded foyer up to the narrow walk which runs from the east wing to the west—but a disused passage back to the kitchens. The sort of walk servants might have taken fifty years ago, slipping surreptitiously from their rooms in the attic to the basements. What need did they have for decoration? This landing holds a vase long empty of flowers, a dusty candelabra, and an overly-ornate bureau. And overseeing all, the painting.

Liesel Grumman, aged sixteen years, preserved and pickled in a brine of oil pigments and glaze. Her hair is styled in loose curls, her narrow body draped in white, and her hands are clasped primly on her lap—not one on top of the other, but palm to palm. Her eyes are blue, her throat bare, and her skin smoother than the brushstrokes that conjure it.

But the varnish is yellowing. The painting has gained a haze, and the corner of the frame is chipped of its gild. Riza shuffles herself forward along the carpet, not quite steady to stand on her own, until she is kneeling at the base of the bureau, looking up into her mother's eternally averted gaze.

Berthold had had nothing to say on the subject of his late wife—other than that she _was_ late and his wife—and Liesel had left precious few letters for perusal. Vaguely, Riza remembers a cardboard portrait of their wedding buried somewhere deep in the cellar: a matching pair in black, Liesel smiling gently and Berthold scowling.

If there had ever been anything like a journal of hers, Grumman never spoke of it. Despite the elopement which had separated them forever, he seemed to still think of his daughter as loyal, darling, sweet, pure, incorruptible—but her gaze in the painting is more dead than demure. The bureau is weighted and steady as Riza ascends, leaving her shoes to topple in the carpet, her elbows digging into the rough panels on either side.

Her eyes are a detached, icy blue. Round, large, surrounded on all sides by sclera barely distinguishable from her snowy white skin. Riza presses gently on the prick of her mother's painted iris, flattening the peak. She didn't really look like this. She never could have—and anyway, if she did and Riza _knew_ , the memory is gone now in a foggy haze of black.

It is happening more and more—things Riza knew not because she could conjure the memory itself but because the vague shapes of it still threaded themselves in and out of other recollections. Impressions of a movement, of a tree weeping leaves into a river, a negative space between thought and thought, marked out only by its absence. It's creeping closer as well, swallowing whole days and nights of solitude. She finds herself frantically scribbling out every thought that might someday find importance, before they can flit away from her fingers.

And what she does remember still—played out before her helpless gaze like a zoetrope glued to her face. A whirling vortex that melts to a view of Eastern Command, where Grumman brought her to the painting before even telling Riza who she was. Who she _was_ —peering down from above the fireplace, amber-trapped, perpetually pre-elopement, pre-death, pre-decay, prevented from any comment on her own current condition—and he leered like a supplicant, offering up no sacrifice worthy of the penance sought in such adolated immortality.

Riza slides from the bureau unsteadily, spiked with sudden fear that the world has shifted itself while her back was turned. And it has—the shapes of Grumman's old sitting room recede, bleeding backwards into carpet and empty wall and worn step, and her own shoes, kicked over and empty. She can't remember how to get back to her own room, or what twists and turns will take her to where she is supposed to be. This isn't home—it's a stop in the pilgrimage to the end, and she sets her left hand on the wall, ready to resume.

By morning, Grumman has attained some level of acceptance. He is the last to come down for breakfast, white-faced and gray-shadowed, and he takes his seat without bothering to bring a plate.

"I'm going to see General Armstrong today," Riza says. A maid woke her in the parlor at sunrise and lead her back to her room, where she slipped uneasily behind the mask of a dressing gown and slippers.

"You don't have to," Roy says, as his spoon scrapes across the bottom of his cup.

"I should," Riza replies. "I want to."

The grapefruit tastes like nothing, but she still winces. Grumman's butler, with a stare of gravest concern, brings the old man some eggs and sausages, which he does not touch.

"When you return," he says, barely managing to unfold his napkin, "we might discuss hiring on a nurse or two. To help out."

"There's no need. I'll be going back to the house next week."

His lip curls up like a burning leaf.

"You can't possibly—"

"It is my home," Riza says steadily.

"Wellesley is too far."

"I had a telephone line installed. The tenants left last month."

Roy's stare shifts up from the newspaper he hadn't been reading, _fixing_ on her—furious, offended, incredulous. He must have thought they were in this together. Riza stares back, her mouth flat as her mood.

"I'm going back to the house," she says. "There is no argument."

"Riza, _please_ , you must be reasonable about some of this—"

"Every Hawkeye," she says, slow and deep and clear as a tolling bell, "for two hundred years was born in that house, and now the last of us will die there."

Grumman's fogged glasses clink against his spoon, and he sets his fingertips against each eyelid.

"I wish you would stop saying that word," he mutters.

Roy waits at the bottom of the stairs with her dress coat—undeterred. They have covered the subject of stubbornness extensively in their time together, so she just sighs and turns around, allowing him to slip the sleeves up her arms and slowly pull each button through its slit. Her whole uniform has been freshly mended for this: its last exercise in the sun. The piping is bright white, the braids are neatly aligned in rows, and each metal pin of rank and office and regiment sparkles with shine. He keeps himself to civilian clothes.

His leave of absence has no doubt been expediently approved, or sits atop that neglected pile of forms awaiting the führer's signature. Another piece in its waiting place.

They could take Grumman's car, but she doesn't want Armstrong to be immediately defensive. Roy orders a cab, and she almost wishes it could be the same driver as yesterday. This one is fine enough, although he smiles with too many teeth. Riza dislikes him instantly and wants, viciously and without cause, to see him frown instead, thinking to dim his irreverence with a remark about her condition. But that was her father's way, never hers, and the impulse passes.

Roy keeps to his side of the bench when she steps in and settles against the door. She is beginning to miss him, even inches apart, and soon he'll have his chance to miss her as well. Without hesitation, Riza slides her hand across the polished leather padding and slips her fingers between his.

He looks at their hands first, and then up to meet her gaze. She's still half-sure he'll pull away. There is nothing to say to the darkness growing behind his eyes.

The Armstrong estate suffered yesterday's rain just like the rest of the city—every time, Riza expects it all to be unblemished and opulent, recently emptied of party guests and yawning for new attention. But instead, it is a quiet house hunched up and drawn in, dripping from its cornice like a near-empty wine bottle, unstoppered and tipped on its side.

There is a butler to let them in, and another butler to announce them. Having no business but escort, Roy is shown into the library, and Riza takes the next step without him.

Maybe they're not all butlers. Three of them stand against the wall in the stately dining room, livery pressed to sharp creases and stares scalding. There must be one table for parties, and this smaller table for every day. Lieutenant General Armstrong sits at the head, newspapers spread on her left and correspondence unopened on her right, with her picked-over breakfast plate neatly in the center. Her brother is also on the right, sitting far down the table—but no doubt as close as she would allow—and he stands when Riza enters.

"Madame General, Captain Hawkeye to see you," the door-opening non-butler says, bowing deeply and backing from Riza's peripheral vision before returning to upright.

"Good morning, Captain Hawkeye," Alex says. "Would you care to join us for breakfast?"

"Thank you, no—I've eaten already."

"Is there some urgent matter?" the general interjects. "I didn't send for you. I thought you were off planning your betrayal of a wedding."

She does not look up from the newspapers, squinting to follow her forefinger across the narrow print. Alex gives her a look of almost matronly disapproval.

"Olivier doesn't mean that, Captain. We're _both_ very happy for you."

"Don't speak for me," she snaps, now lifting her coffee for a sip—obstinance. Riza used to find that horribly endearing in a commander. "The captain's choice in romantic partner has already been reflected in her annual review."

"Olivier, don't be impolite."

"I wonder if I might speak to the general alone," Riza says. Her knees are beginning to strain, and the heels of both feet grow hot. She might have laced her boots too tight in her haste to leave.

"Of course, Captain. Please excuse me."

Alex nods, rises, and ushers the butlers from the room. The general turns to her correspondence, unfolding a concealed pair of reading glasses and setting them on the end of her nose.

"I can't _believe_ the cheek of you bringing that worthless cur into my library."

She loves scolding over a meal. How many bottom-rankers had Riza brought to her table at supper, every one of them knock-kneed with hunger-strengthened fear, to receive a lashing of words no less capable of stripping flesh from bone than the stiffest leather strap?

"It's bad enough you've accepted him—and now he follows you around everywhere like a sick dog, so eager to throw his victory in my face."

She points with a butter knife.

"You know I take this all as a personal offense."

"I know, ma'am."

But what could she do about it? Her refusal would have changed nothing more than—distance? Perhaps Riza would never have gone in to check. The air around Briggs is so thin, and she'd been teased for her inferior Western lungs more than once. Perhaps one morning an enlisted aide would have been sent to her bunk, to rouse for inspection, and she would have just been found, blue-lipped and silent forever.

"Don't tell me that he's gone and knocked you up. The thought of that _idiot_ propagating—"

The sting is surprising.

"I've said something cruel, haven't I?"

Riza opens her eyes—surprised again, to find that she had closed them. The general has set aside her letters and her papers and hidden once more the glasses she wants no one to know of, and she watches Riza with her hands folded on the edge of the table.

"I'm sorry," she says. "It's serious. And I've made some mockery of it."

The overly-familiar upward rush of illness—Riza is standing close enough to the table to grip the back of a chair before she can completely collapse.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm afraid I must sit in your presence."

The general returns to her own seat slowly, too startled to conceal her concern. Beneath the table's edge, Riza's hands are shaking.

"What's going on, Captain?"

"I came to submit my resignation, ma'am."

She nods. She might be angry, disappointed, annoyed—but none of this shows in the knit of her brows.

"And I can't refuse. No matter if I wish I could."

"No, ma'am."

"Is it—is there anything—"

A fragment of a generous offer. A lilt in her voice, a downward shift in tone, maybe even something close to a tremor. They are not—will never _be_ —anything resembling friends. And there is such deep relief in it.

"But I'm sure the führer's exhausted every possible avenue—to confirm…?"

Riza says nothing. The general nods, sliding into her earlier pose, back rigid against the chair, hands shuffling through the correspondence pile, eyes averted—but Riza knows she is not done just yet.

"You'll stay here, with your grandfather?"

"No, ma'am. I own a house in the Western District. We'll go there in a few days, when the rest of my affairs are settled."

The room has reoriented itself around its own wavering silhouettes. Riza can stand without shaking, and she sets the chair back against the table with a muffled click of polished wood on wood. She can even manage parade rest, fixing her stare on a single flower carved into the painting frame directly above the general's head.

"I've briefed Lieutenant Falman already on my projects and as specifically as possible on expectations in serving as your interim adjutant."

"There will never be an equal replacement."

Riza's fingernails bite briefly into the flesh of her palms.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"I suppose that's it, then. You are dismissed."

She never looks up. Riza could imagine a slight twitch passing through the general's occupied hands, but why bother? This is almost exactly what she wanted.

Yet another butler meets her outside the dining room. Roy has broken the containment of the library, and he does not smile at her return.


	2. who dies

**who dies**

The registry office in Wellesley opens only by appointment—they had no way of knowing, and so wait outside for a nearby shoeshine boy to disappear down the road and then return again with the judge in tow. A chair is brought from the hotel next door, for Riza, and set beneath the narrowing shade of an overhung awning. They are married there, witnessed in the open air by the shoeshine and a passing farmhand dressed primly for church—because in his haste, the judge forgot his keys. Riza is too tired to stand, although she raises her hands to Roy's and manages to speak her vows clearly enough to satisfy.

Roy bends down to kiss her, and her cheeks and chin are coated in a fine sheen of sweat.

Driving to the house in his car is a bizarre experience—the road used to be just wide enough for one horse-cart abreast, but now it's paved smooth. The trees on either side have been trimmed back above solid-cobbled stone walls, and they even pass a pedestrian or two, wielding umbrellas against the reemerged sun.

Riza sees none of it. Fitfully, she sleeps with her coat wedged between the seatback and her tilted head. She'll be cold when she wakes, so he keeps a blanket waiting on the bench between them.

They've already had the furniture delivered, and groceries will arrive on a schedule worked out with the general store in town, and he's arranged to have a local girl come three times a week for cleaning and laundry and sometimes to cook. He's only learned a bit more domesticity during their too-brief engagement, and even if he's terrible as a husband, at least—the thought comes so quick and cutting and he cannot banish such ugliness outright— _at least_ , she won't have long to suffer it.

The hired girl isn't around when they arrive, which he can take as a relief. He gathers Riza from the car and carries her inside to the waiting bed, watching the steps and her face in equal measure.

She won't look like this when she has finally died, but it's too close. The shift from his arms to the bed is boneless and near-silent, as guilt lodges a lump in his throat. He _knows_ , but still he kisses her cheek and her temple and the edge of her hairline, coaxing enough movement from her to calm his racing heart.

"It's alright," he whispers, running his hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear as she frowns into the pillow. "I'll just be downstairs."

Fresh flowers occupy each room—the girl will be responsible for changing them on every other visit—but otherwise, the space is impersonal. He spent little time in the parlor or the dining room as a boy—both seemingly shut up by cave-ins of boxes and debris, but he knew the kitchen well, and the library and his assigned room upstairs. Nothing remains of what he remembers here: splits in the plaster of every wall have been mudded over and painted, the clutter-occupied floors are swept and varnished to shine. All the furniture is new, from some maker a few stops down the line. The library has lost its shelves. The previous tenants blocked off its fireplace a few years back and used the room as a nursery.

Downstairs, sunlight floods through scrubbed windows, and Roy carries in from the car crate after crate of paintings and photographs that have made the long trip west. They retain only the faintest odor of mildew from their long storage.

The few chances he'd had to visit her up at Briggs and stayed the night, he would wake in her bunk somewhat unnerved by the sheer mass of faces peering down on them. She had festooned each wall with a collage of photographs, in a steady rotation of old and new. The mountain was a lonely place, as she'd written so often, each time imploring him to send pictures of anything resembling home: puddles in the street outside his house, the foggy glint of lamplight above his aunt's new bar, Havoc and Breda's candid grins when caught out on a break.

She almost never sent pictures of herself in return—cameras are contraband in the north, unless personally sanctioned by the führer. Roy has a few of those images, clipped from newspapers, of Riza frowning professionally at Lieutenant General Armstrong's shoulder or blurred in the background, a streak of gray on the endless white. Riza, naturally, hates every one of them.

The paintings require a keener eye. She had only spent a short time curating her collection, venturing out to the markets every Sunday, always seeking the smaller vendors who sold their own wares rather than dealing in reproductions. She favored flowers, still lifes of books and vases, and birds—always in cool colors, composed of pastels or pencils or crayon. Instinct tells him not to arrange by subject or size, but the gradient of hue he creates seems somehow unbalanced. He takes a few canvases down, puts them back up, matches and mismatches.

Only half the crate is empty, and inspiration has failed him. The clean and orderly whiteness of the room is only tarnished by his efforts. Frowning, Roy flicks through what remains unhung. A cityscape, a willow weeping over a stream, a cafe scene—and of course, the portrait.

Grumman had commissioned an oil painting of Riza a year past, which she had gamely sat for—assuming she'd never have to see the monstrosity once completed. It was the perfect mirror of her mother's portrait, similarly commissioned before a sudden elopement, and the old man had once made it the centerpiece of his parlor, surrounded on all sides by hunting trophies and artifacts of battles past.

Perhaps Riza's portrait had been meant as a replacement—the way Roy remembered it, Riza resembled her mother in all but eye color—as the original seemed to have gone missing in Grumman's move from East City to Central Command. But with tears and sniffles of preterm grief, the führer had insisted they take this new portrait with them. It is the only piece Roy brings directly to the cellar, setting it on a shelf just above the floodline and leaving the canvas tightly twine-bound.

It's hard to tell if the cellar's been scrubbed out as much as the rest of the house, although he can clearly see someone's swept the scrolls and rats from the wine racks lining the southern wall. They never bothered to run electricity down here, and he doesn't have an ignition glove—he has to fumble around for the matchbox and nearly burns his fingertips trying to reach the wick of the oil-lamp waiting by the bottom of the stairs. Cobwebs and spirals of dust are illuminated, and not much else.

A few pieces of muslin-shrouded furniture congregate in the corner, and one of them, he thinks, looks just a bit like Master Hawkeye's old table from library. Instead, he finds a stack of crates, all missing nails and lids loose. Mostly it's books and musty curtains, but he finds a few photographs as well. Remnants of prior lives long gone. She won't want any of them, except—

Still pressed into its cardboard envelope, although the studio name has been worn away by time or exposure. He can remember the moment of the flash, and Auntie's hand tightening on his shoulder. Master Hawkeye stands as a solid column of black coat and hunched shoulders, and Riza clutches her bouquet of buttercups to her chest, eyes on some passing cart instead of the camera. A simple thing, posed and preserved in the murky amber of the old water printing.

Why had they taken it? Roy flips the photograph itself as though it might reveal an answer, but there is only a perfectly straight line of pencil letters across the back, carefully recording their names. Perhaps it had been at his own insistence, wanting some permanent record of the beginnings of his life, some proof that he had been a child with dreams and ideals, who'd boldly written a letter to a man he'd never known demanding a place as his apprentice. And Hawkeye had written him back, had agreed on strength of his former friendship with Roy's long-deceased parents, and had brought his little daughter to greet them at the train station with buttercups and an off-balance curtsy.

Roy doesn't touch the paper, wanting to keep the oil of his skin from staining the ink, but he gently trails a finger across their faces. Even if she doesn't want it, he'll keep it somewhere close.

When he finally ascends, Riza has made her way downstairs, appraising his efforts from an old-fashioned lounge set in one corner.

"It's alright," she says, without waiting for his excuses. "A couple of bare spots, but we can fill them."

She wants to be, in her words, _properly married_ —she teases his caution, rightly noting that neither of them are exactly blushing virgins, but still he hesitates. She walks upstairs, strips down, and arrays herself on the bed all under her own power, as if to prove him wrong.

"Why do you think I saved up all my energy today?"

She is beautiful in such exposure. Even if it hovers at the very edge of every thought, he does not see her in these moments as sick or as a woman dying. She is freckled ivory skin and soft breasts, blonde hair spread across the pillow in a blinding corona, deep eyes like forest faun beckoning him down to rest.

Kneeling at the bed's foot, he kisses the inside of her ankle—a ticklish spot that yields from her a quiet bubble of laughter. He undresses out of her reach, following the hum of her pulse, up her calf, her kneecap, the warmth of her thighs, and then sharply around to her hip, outlining the bone just beneath her skin with feathered touches. Her smile is gentle impatience, silent, letting him finish, but she is imploring, as always, for more.

He is grateful for the time they have spent building this intimacy _before_ —when the milky future had seemed so clear in her eyes, when he had dreamt with abandon of every now-impossible branching path. He had, with the balm of passion, soothed the aching loneliness that haunted them both, had taught himself the arc of her spine and the sweet exhalation of her undoing. The rough edges, too, and the moments mismanaged that saw them collapse into laughter on her narrow bunk. He can touch, can love, can embrace with the purity of perfect intentions, can watch the tremble of her lips and press his against her neck, can envelope her whispers with his own, can twist and tug the fraying thread that unravels her and then let himself follow after.

Years later, he will remember this night as the last time they made love, forgetting the few quiet hollows that followed after, each shorter and more awkward and fumbling, as the long line of final days spiraled around him, unbroken.

It is essential to establish a routine—she sets up a study in the old library and chafes at his over-attention, preferring that he should have his calls and his telegrams and his campaign of letters in some other room of the house. Necessity of command does not shutter itself just because he needs a leave of absence, and although he's built a new team worthy of uninhibited trust, Roy is grateful for the distraction. Riza tells him to take the typewriter because she hates the clacking of keys, but he knows the tremble of her fingers has already weakened their dexterity.

He doesn't ask what she spends all day writing—from breakfast to afternoon he can hear the nib scratching across pages, a feverish pace that seems to speed as she begins to slow.

"It's important. Things I've thought about. Things I remember. I had so many ideas for the future of this country, and I'm not going to let them waste with me in the ground."

Roy laughs, dividing lunch between their plates. Downstairs, the hired girl is sweeping.

"You sound like your father."

" _Please_ ," Riza says. "He lost his fight and then gave up on the future. He wasn't an anarchist from his deathbed. Just a selfish old man."

A spark flashes through her eyes—a memory? A moment of confusion?

"Oh!" she breathes. "That's a great title for a pamphlet."

They're set at a little table beside her desk, and she leans over, snatching up a pen and a scrap of paper. _Anarchist from the deathbed_ , she writes.

"I'm not publishing that."

"Who says I'm leaving any of this to you?" she retorts lightly, tossing the scrap back onto her pile. She hasn't yet touched her food. "You forget, I've seen your paperwork."

"I can hire an editor."

She smiles, plucking his hand from the tabletop and kissing his knuckles.

"I suppose. I only married you to avoid writing a will."

It's difficult to mark the precise start, but her decline is quick. She used to spend their evenings after dinner reading in the sitting room, but gradually the books disappear and she takes up teaching herself to paint with oils: a small series of canvases depicting flowers in artfully arranged still-lifes, which grow steadily impressionistic, day by day.

He'll find her sometimes midday, studying the photographs arranged through the room with a hard frown creasing her face. When caught, she'll call him in and quiz him on each image—the subjects, the date and location, the precious personal significance of each. He knows why, and plays along with all the greater enthusiasm.

Telegrams begin to pile up unanswered, and he calls the sub-district operator to instruct that only emergency calls are to be forwarded. He finds excuses to sit in the library with her, to bring her tea and rearrange the shawls wrapped around her narrow shoulders.

At night sometimes, she wakes with screaming terrors, certain in such moments that her father will claw his way from the grave to kill them both and eat their bones. She sees specters of old friends and twice begs his indulgence for the poor quality of her paperwork. In moments of lucidity, she mocks her ramblings with cold frustration. Her hands tremble all the more, and she clenches them white against her knees.

She keeps writing. She tears the paper, scratches over, speckles her skin with ink. Some of it, he knows, must be nonsense. But he picks up each scrap, smoothes each balled-up page, and does what few little things he still can for her.

He is adjusting the wireless signal in the library when she drops her pen for the last time, her head shaking and her throat sighing.

"No more," she says, when he offers to transcribe her dictations. She meets his eyes when he kneels into her down-turned gaze, as though surprised the question had had a corporeal source. "It's not all there is to say, but it's enough."

That was a Monday. On Tuesday, she argues with her father about money and then falls silent for two hours, staring through her empty canvas. She jumps at every sound and cries out to him for protection the moments he disappears from her darkening sight.

It is breaking the rules—she had said goodbye in all the ways that she wanted, long before there was such certainty—but he calls mostly on a whim late that night, while writing out a check for the groceries due to arrive tomorrow. The stairs have become a growing vexation, and for the fifth day in a row, Roy has carried Riza up to their bed, ignoring the protests that emptied her wheezing lungs.

Rebecca picks up and calls Jean to the extension before Roy can object. He begs them to bring the dog.

He tries to help—rearranging certain photographs to cluster together, steering conversations over breakfast to East City and to academy days. It's so hard to guess what she will or won't know when they finally arrive. He braids her hair while she ignores the food, and he brings a thicker shawl down, and he begs her not to move from the chair he sets in the sunlight of the sitting room. She holds a book between her fingers and squints at the text.

"Do you have calls?" she asks. "I didn't even hear the telephone."

"No, no calls. They're all leaving me alone now."

"That's right."

Even the softest sigh weighs her so heavily.

"What else have you told me before?"

"Don't worry about it," he says, kissing her cheek. "Just stay."

"Of course," she says, with a wan smile. "I'll be right here."

He can hear the car crunching through the drive's untidy gravel, and he waits just inside the front door, where he can see and be unseen. Hunched together, oblivious, Rebecca holds her face in her hands, shoulders heaving, as Jean rubs small circles on her arms.

As instructed, they have brought nothing but the dog, and he bounds happily through the grass. He must be approaching old age, but he retains the energy of a puppy—tail thumping the ground hard as he comes to sit at Roy's feet.

"Hey, mutt," he says, kneeling to scratch Hayate's ears and the sweet spot on the back of his neck. The collar's new, and now there's an address stamped on the back of the tag. Residence of Havoc and Catalina, if he had to guess.

"Hey, uh—Roy."

Jean frowns. They're all civilians out here, and it feels wrong.

"Hi," Rebecca says, breathy from the recent tears. She lurches forward into a hug—and Roy accepts it, although they've only met a handful of times.

He leads them inside, holding the dog in both arms. Riza hasn't moved, although her hands are twisting in her lap, and her smile on seeing them is lopsided.

"Hello," she says hesitantly, with a look more frightened than friendly.

"Look who's come to visit you," Roy says, as he sets Hayate on the floor. The dog approaches Riza, tail wagging cautiously, before setting his chin on her leg. She places her hand between his ears, tremors hidden now by his fur.

"Hi, Riza," Rebecca says, kneeling to be in her line-of-sight. "I've missed you."

A flash—he will be the only one who knows, but Riza recovers from it enough to keep going.

"I," she says, "missed you, too."

Rebecca nods, joining Riza in gently scratching Hayate's spine.

"It's so nice to see you again."

"It's been a while," Riza says, a question directed at the dog more than the rest of them.

"Yeah, it has."

Jean's hand closes over his shoulder—Roy realizes then that he's retreated to the doorway.

"Let's give them a minute," Jean says quietly.

"There's…"

He blinks.

"Coffee. In the kitchen."

"Sounds great."

Riza does not look up at his exit—she is concentrating only on her current efforts, and there's nowhere in the house they could go that he wouldn't hear her calling, if he were to be needed. Nodding, Roy backs into the hall, leading the way to the kitchen's closed door. Rote memory: he enters, stopping only a half-pace inside, dazed by the effort.

"Why don't you just sit down? I can figure it out, boss."

So he does: pulls a never-used chair from beneath the kitchen table—he'd meant for it to host breakfast, but any meals he didn't bring to her library were always taken in the sitting room, with her photographs—and he drops heavily, as though his knees are only hinges, lacking any backstop. Limp flowers sit in a vase at the center of the table, long past their prime.

He'd told the girl not to come by today. They were having guests. And he'd call when she was needed again.

"So, how are you?"

"I—"

Answer on instinct.

"Fine. I'm fine."

"No offense, but that's horseshit."

He doesn't remember the process being so instantaneous—Jean brings over two cups of burning black coffee, and then he sits in the chair right beside Roy rather than across.

"You look like shit, boss. You lost a bunch of weight."

Jean stirs sugar and cream into his mug, brow raised.

"I eat what she eats," Roy says, "which I guess isn't a lot lately."

Coffee he's always taken just as is—he lacks a reason to swirl a spoon around the bottom and create a natural moment to pause. Instead he stares down into the corrupted liquid mirror, avoiding his own eyes.

"They said that's the first thing. That she'd stop being hungry, stop wanting food, before—"

 _Before_. He feels the breath leave him, raggedly.

"I know it's coming. I mean—I've _known_. But it's close now. She's right here, and she's… so far away."

Out of sight when she hasn't been, for such a long time, and he can't bring himself to drink, tightening his hands around the cup enough that he wonders why the porcelain won't break. He is half-strength without her, half-sized against the looming of her absence.

"Roy, how are _you_?" Jean asks again, sincerity slowing each syllable.

"I really don't know."

It's bizarre to be the focus of attention, in this way. He's had confidantes, adjutants, lackeys, even a few hired thugs, but friendship was always difficult to come by. Roy hasn't thought of anyone in particular as an intimate—at least, not since Maes Hughes died, too many years past. Jean is close enough to being a contemporary, even if he was too young by a year to experience Ishval.

And there's something in the look he gives Roy: not pity, not close to understanding, but something akin to authenticity. The memory is buried deep, but they'd once shared an experience unique to all others—the proximity of death, the certainty that they both would be the last person each other saw. In the hospital, there'd been only jokes to mask a careful aversion of eyes, of delving too far into horror and transformation. But sometimes at night, Roy would lie awake and know from the unchanged pattern of breathing to his right that Jean was also lying awake. It was a comfort.

A drop of water appears on the table between his arms—such a strange occurrence, considering the chances of rain indoors.

"I tell myself it's not so bad," Roy says. "She remembers me—I think because I'm here. And even when—when she doesn't _know_ , sometimes she's happy."

He glances up briefly, trying to smile, but Jean is awash in blur.

"She thinks we're just here, and we're happy. I don't want to lie to her, but…"

A shrug.

"It's easier. For me. And because in a minute or two, she won't remember it anyway. Is—is it horrible? That part of me wants it to just be over?"

"No," Jean says quietly. He sets a hand on Roy's arm—warm, gentle, unexpected. "It's shit, boss. Pure shit, watching this kind of thing happen to someone. Let alone the woman you spent your life loving."

"Were we always that transparent?"

"More than you'll ever really know," Jean says with a short, quiet laugh. Roy flattens his fingers on the tabletop. His nails look pitted, bitten down to the quick.

"I'm scared of what happens when it is over. I don't think I know who I am, after this."

"I know I don't have an answer for that," Jean sighs. "But I wish I did."

They leave the coffee in the kitchen—Riza will want none, and Rebecca is occupied with filling the quiet. She has pulled a little pouf up to Riza's chair and leans over the arm, holding both of Riza's hands gently. The dog is curled between them, leaning up against Riza's legs beneath the blanket.

"You're back?" Riza says to Roy. "When did you go?"

She is so small. He's been too close to see it until now.

"It hasn't been long. Are you tired?"

And she smiles, so relieved.

Jean tells him, somewhat pointedly, that they're going to stay the night in the village—after Rebecca is already in the car, door closed, and turned away to hide her face. Roy stands just inside the foyer to watch them go, waving once.

When he returns to the sitting room, Hayate is up, tail wagging gently, as Riza holds his face and runs her fingers down his snout.

"You're beautiful," she says. "I hope I told you that many times."

Roy carries her upstairs, to the bed, as she trails an arm behind, coaxing Hayate to follow. He's slow, but steady for a dog of his age, and he waits patiently for Roy to arrange the blankets before jumping up on the bed, turning his circles, and coming to rest against her feet.

"Do you want anything?" Roy asks.

"Some water," she whispers, turning her head to the pillow, "please."

The house is dim but not dark. The jars of flowers set before each window scatter the light, painting meadows and winding rivers across every room. Motes of dust dance between, illuminating an aisle to the door. The coffee cups still sit untouched in the kitchen, and the lilac here has browned completely. The shriveled little blossoms cloud around the vase, untouched by breeze or sunlight.

When he returns to the bedroom, Riza has turned on her side, faced away from the door. Hayate has moved up as well, curling close to her stretched arms. His eyes are open, and he is watching Riza's face.

Roy does not cross to her side of the bed—he sets the water on his own end table and kneels. He kisses her cheek and her temple and the edge of her hairline—and then lays himself beside her, molds his legs against her legs and stomach against her bent back. He is trembling, he is cold and hollow and he knows knows _knows_.

Beneath his hand, her heart thrums and skips.

"It's alright," he whispers. "I'll be right here, when you're ready."


	3. who tells your story

**who tells your story**

From the peak of the roof, Ed can see the long and lonely stretch of the rail line disappearing into the mountain. He still loves the cool whisper of its whistle far-off and heading in, but it doesn't fill him with a longing for the road the way it used to. He's a husband now, and teacher frequently and village councilor sometimes, and soon— _alarmingly_ soon—a father.

The nearness of coming change is what's driven him up a ladder, to straddle the shingles and, with nails clamped between his teeth, to patch holes and join new trestle to old. The house is getting cramped—the front half's a real clinic now, with a proper doctor hired in from Rush Valley and the automail shop having swallowed all the basement. They get patients and clients and more visitors than they reasonably have beds for, and three months now Winry's been asking when he'd get around to building that extension. He tried putting it off until Al was back, because of course alchemy will speed the work, but excuses are excuses are excuses.

"I'm not holding my knees closed for another four months!" she'd said, jabbing dead-center of his chest. "You're plenty handy at carpenter work, and you're owed about a million favors in town."

And this was true—Ed never liked charging for his services, as the dregs of his state stipend are enough to keep them flush for ten lifetimes. But people around here insisted on showing gratitude in practical ways, like extra pounds of meat from the butcher or hand-wrought yarn for Granny's knitting. Ed had had a crew up for most of the day: boys that hang around after class to hear his stories and poke at the holes, and the girls who spend summers baling hay and shearing sheep. In the space of a morning and an afternoon, they'd raised walls and laid the floor and wedged in a dozen or so windows. He sent them off to their homes for supper and admonished them not to return tomorrow, knowing anyway that there would be a cart of eager hands on its way back by dawn.

He sets the hammer against his knee and leans back, breathing deep. The breeze carries to him the quiet lull of church bells, and then Winry's voice.

"There's a telegram come for you," she calls up, as Ed slides down the ladder and tosses his work gloves over a rung. She's getting slower, huffing and waddling adorably, which Granny keeps mentioning is a sure sign the baby will be along any day now. "It came in with the invoices, but I didn't open it."

"Brigadier _General_ Mustang," Ed snorts, raggedly tearing the envelope open with his thumb. He only reads the first line before his fingers go numb, letting the delicate carbon sheet flutter to the ground.

"Ed, what is it?"

Breath seems suddenly hard to come by—though not from exertion.

"It…"

He wants to read it over again and won't.

"It says Riza Hawkeye's died."

He has to be the one to tell Al. No telegram is going to find him in the chaos of the Chang clan's village. It takes long enough to connect a call—Ed listens to the tick and buzz and tick for a good twenty minutes, and he holds the telegram flat beneath his hooked thumb and index finger. The words flash disconnected in his gaze: _regret_ and _inform_ and _Hawkeye_ and _died_. Funeral tomorrow—the telegram was a day late in arriving.

Mei Chang's grandmother answers, and Ed has to negotiate with the little Xingese he knows to be passed from house to house and reach his brother. Al answers with a breathy laugh, expecting happy news.

"I can't remember the last time I saw her," he says, voice cracking.

"Me either," Ed replies quietly. The kitchen is black with night, and the light switch is too far for him to reach. "I think it was Central. Their engagement party? She looked so happy."

"She did."

There is a long silence where they can both cry, quietly, connected even through this distance.

"I'm going to have to decide soon, aren't I?" Al asks helplessly. "I can't have two homes forever. When I'm here, I feel like I should be there. And I _should_ be, now, of all times…"

He takes a shuddering breath.

"I can't believe she's gone. Just… someone else we didn't get to say goodbye to."

Winry refuses to be left behind, so Ed pays extra for the private sleeping car, where cushions keep her from jostling left and right with the train's sway. They're west-bound, to some spit of a village called Wellesley and then ten miles farther. He's received the instructions from Jean Havoc, who answered the telegram's indicated number with a thick sigh.

"How long was she sick?" Ed had asked, twisting his empty hand against his leg.

"Not long," Havoc said. "But too late to do anything about it."

"How is he?"

"Bad. You're probably going to miss the funeral, but there's a thing after, at their house."

"We'll come."

He expects the platform to be busier and maybe wreathed in black drapery, but it's a little place hardly bigger than Resembool's station. There are two benches inside, empty and facing the only window—rosette, perched high in the roof beams.

The village is small and packed densely, houses circled close against the encroaching trees. Half the streets are paved, but enough mud has tracked across the cobbles to paint them the same indistinguishable red-brown. Ed hates the car ride, for the way the poorly-upholstered bench forces them tightly together. The temperature seems to rise as they crawl farther and farther west—he's the first to step out of the car when they arrive, and humidity nearly knocks him back against the fender.

The front door of the house is closed, and it seems no one is waiting to let them in.

"It's lovely," Winry says, huffing her way out with the help of Ed's hand. "Except for the trees, we could almost be home again."

Which is bizarrely true—unlike the wattle-and-daub look of West City or even the river-stone cobbles of Wellesley, the Hawkeye house rears back symmetrical and clad in white, imperiously simple in its understated decoration of blue paint on its shutters and doors. The windows look mottled in the sunlight: glazing thicker at the bottoms of each pane and fogged up, with the vaguest of colors and shapes moving behind them. He expects somehow for the house to extend up into the clouds, but it stops after two stories, beneath a slate tile roof and a chimney that lists against the tide of winds high above the trees.

Ed helps the taxi driver stack their bags on the grassy pavestones.

"Do we go and knock?" he asks, but Winry is already halfway up the walk. The door opens before she can reach for the knob—Jean Havoc on the other side, looking somewhat narrower than the last time they saw him, in his dress uniform and black sash.

"You made it," he says, leaning in to Winry's greeting hug. "I hope it wasn't too hard."

"It was nothing," Winry says. "But we're not imposing?"

"No, there's plenty of room to stay. Someone'll get your bags upstairs. We thought—"

He sighs, stepping aside to let them pass. The house is many degrees cooler than outside, despite the quiet hum of the implied crowd further in. The hall extends straight through to the back of the house, splitting two rooms on either side, and it is lined with tastefully sparse chairs and hanging lamps.

"We thought, it was better he wasn't alone."

"Where is he?"

"Kitchen, I think. Führer's _receiving_ in the sitting room here. If you're hungry or something, there's food set out banquet-style, so help yourself."

"Is—is she…?"

Ed can't quite form the thought into words. The air is dense with cold and feels closed, dusty, disused.

"We buried her this morning," Havoc says. "Real nice place, by some trees. Rebecca and I were here the day before she—"

It's a visceral reaction, a wince that travels to a shudder.

"She didn't want people to see her like that."

"I wish we could have said goodbye at least," Winry says.

"You did. Last time you saw her—whenever that was, that's how she wanted you to remember her."

At the far end of the hall is a closed door, puzzled together out of narrow squares of glass. The garden beyond bounces sunlight off its leaves and paths, tainting the white paneling green and yellow. No one outside—the wind that bothers the treetops can't reach the ground, and the world enveloping this house is motionless as a painting.

"Let's go on through, and you can get some food," Havoc says. "I have to get back to Rebecca."

He heads for the front room, and they follow. Winry keeps a hold of Ed's hand.

The room is too crowded for furniture—he can guess at the location of a chair by the awkward gap between mourners, but for the most part, the memorial is standing room only. A sea of dress uniforms broken by the occasional black hat or short veil. The führer is sequestered behind his guards on the far left and snuffling into a handkerchief, surrounded by a crowd of lower officers Ed doesn't recognize.

"Let's go over to Mr. Armstrong," Winry says. "Didn't that other man there with him used to work with General Mustang?"

"Falman, yeah. He stayed up at Briggs after the big fight."

Lieutenant General Armstrong is concealed by her brother's broad, bowed shoulders, and she keeps one hand resting habitually on the hilt of her ceremonial saber, but her frown seems a different inflection.

"Hello, Fullmetal," she says. "They weren't sure you'd make it."

"Gave up that title a few years ago. Now I'm just Ed."

"Of course, Edward."

Alex, gravelly and grave as ever, turns slowly to bring them into the small circle.

"I hope your journey here was not particularly arduous, considering your current condition."

"Oh, I get into more trouble now than I did before," Winry says with a small smile. "Lieutenant General, ma'am, I'm sorry for your loss."

"It wasn't really mine."

But her gaze doesn't quite connect.

"Captain Hawkeye was a gifted officer—one of the finest I've had the privilege to serve with. She performed her duties as adjutant admirably, and she left me with a decent replacement."

"I try my best," Falman says, briefly tipping his wine glass. "It all happened so quickly towards the end—I saw her only a few months ago, and part of me was so certain this was all a hoax or a big misunderstanding. She never wavered. Never looked ill. It's madness that she's gone."

"I gather it was a family affliction," the lieutenant general says. "Her father died in a similar way, although I understand he had a little more time."

Ever so lightly, Winry touches the back of Ed's hand.

"I think I'd like to find a place to sit down."

She won't want company, but it's as good an excuse as any to duck out. Winry finds an empty seat in the corner, on some antique-looking lounge, and she waves him aside.

"Go on," she says. "Plenty of people around to get me whatever I need."

He bends down to kiss her hairline and then straightens up again, catching the eye of Heymans Breda across the room.

"He's not going to thank you for being here, but it really means a lot to him, to have us all around."

"Havoc told us not to make arrangements for lodging," Ed says, keeping his wrist straight and grip firm. Breda's always been a bit of a hand-crusher, but Ed's grown enough now to equal him out.

"Plenty of bedrooms," Breda confirms. "Falman's gotta go back with the Armstrongs, and the führer should be leaving any minute. But me, Havoc, you guys, Rebecca, and Gracia are all set upstairs. Not that you have to stay—if there's something more pressing back home."

"No," Ed says. "We're here, and we want to be here."

Breda jams his hands back into his pockets.

"So how's it been, being back home? Kept man—you miss the road at all?"

"A bit," Ed says with a shrug. "But not enough to go out again. Al's stories are enough for me."

"His name's always coming up in reports from Xing," Breda says. "He thinking about making the move permanent?"

"I don't know. I don't think he could be away from home like that. I think he likes going between. Especially now, with little niece or nephew on their way."

"Congrats, by the way. We put your postcard up on the wall at work."

Ed thanks him, and they fall silent for a while.

As predicted, the führer is gradually making his exit and filtering the crowd of most unfamiliars. Ed shifts slightly, half-wishing he had left his hair down to better hide his face. His gaze falls on a collage of photographs littering the wall to their right—shots of buildings and crowds and the insides of pubs he's never seen. Only one of just the two of them that he can see: embracing in a snowfall, surrounded by friends.

"When were they married?" he asks.

"Right after they moved here. They were planning on a long engagement, until she made major and got moved out to Central as Armstrong's proxy. Sounded like it was only a few weeks away, when…"

Breda grimaces.

"I hate this. I really hate it."

They watch the führer and his guards file out. The old man walks heavily, leaning most of his frame on an ornate stick, gold-tipped and dark wood.

"Granddaughter's fucking funeral, and he still has to show off his trophies."

"That's seditious," Ed says, eyebrow raised.

"Who gives a shit? He's gonna retire in a couple months anyway, and then we're under Armstrong's thumb."

"Really? Not…?"

Breda shakes his head.

"So who would take over Briggs?"

"Whoever's next in line, I guess. Funny how we put in all this work, and nothing changed."

"I don't think that's true," Ed says. "A lot of people down around us are talking about organizing district conventions."

"That should be fun to watch," Breda sighs. "First woman führer in the history of this country, toppled by democracy."

The entourage passes by Armstrong, but she doesn't glance, keeping that imperious chin high in the air. She doesn't look bored, exactly, but contemplative—as though always waiting for the start of the next engagement.

"I should go find him," Ed sighs. "Tell him… whatever the hell you're supposed to tell someone."

"Look for Gracia. He'll be nearby."

She is found not far from the closed kitchen door, and she hugs him long enough that Ed can still smell her perfume after she steps back.

"It's Mrs. Cotter now, actually," she says, a bit sheepish.

"Oh, that's—"

He stutters his way through it.

"I'm so happy for you. Is he… here?"

"No, he stayed back home to mind the shop. We have a bookstore together. He—"

She half-smiles.

"Herman and I met at a social group for widows and widowers—he lost his wife young, to sickness, and all of this… it's too close for him still."

She falters a moment, and then brightens again, like instinct.

"He's really a wonderful man. They didn't have children of their own, but he loves Elicia so dearly. And he likes Roy, and he liked Riza, too, but—someone had to run the shop."

"What about you?" Ed asks. "Are you alright?"

"Maes was different," she says, after a pause. "It was sudden. There was a lot we hadn't had the chance to talk about, and there was so much left… undone. With this—with Riza, and with Herman's wife—there was time. Decisions and plans that could be discussed."

"Hard to know which one's worse."

She smiles again and gently squeezes Ed's hand.

"He's just in the kitchen. He needed some time away from the crowd, but you can go in."

The door is heavy and seems only recently white-washed. The kitchen beyond is dazzlingly bright and decorated with jar after jar of wildflowers. Roy Mustang sits at the table with a faraway look in his eyes, one hand upturned and held loosely by Elicia. She has a canvas and palette set out and idly paints a quiet meadow scene.

Ed pulls out a chair, and as he drops into view, Roy blinks, suddenly focused.

"Have I seen you already?" he asks. "It's been such a long day."

"No, we just got here," Ed says. He feels obligated to speak softly, to half-smile with sadness and temper his gaze with gentle understanding—but that is not, and has never been, how they were with each other. "I'm really sorry, Roy. But I wish you'd told us."

"It wasn't on purpose this time, I promise."

"Yeah, Havoc said as much. That it's how she wanted it."

Roy nods, and beneath his elbow, Ed can see the glint of silver.

"You smoke now?" he asks. And Roy looks down, following the point of Ed's finger, surprised almost to see the lighter.

"No," he says. "It was hers."

Something is engraved on the front, but it's probably rude to ask. Elicia mixes blue and green on her palette.

"Where's big brother?" she asks.

"He's in Xing. He couldn't make it back in time."

Her nod is as slow as Roy's was—she still wears her hair in twin bunches, but it's long enough now to plait over each shoulder, and she doesn't bother to look up. Her brush moves the canvas slightly on the polished wood, but she doesn't let go of Roy's hand.

"You know you can't call me little brother anymore," Ed says. "I'm gonna have a baby soon."

"Mommy told me. She said you're having a girl."

"We don't know that."

"Well, _I_ know it," Elicia says. "I know everything. What's her name gonna be?"

"We're still not settled on one."

Roy has returned to the blank stare—although it has shifted to the window and the empty garden beyond.

"I should go out," he says, wearied by exhalation.

"Grumman just left," Ed offers. "It's probably safe."

Elicia lets go without a look upward, focused solidly on her artwork. It's encouragement, not callousness, as Roy closes his eyes and then stands, scraping the chair back. Every movement seems drawn up from a deep well of pain.

"Winry's here?" he asks, focusing on Ed. They're the same height now, but the hunch of shoulders shortens Roy—his uniform is hanging so horribly loose.

"Yeah, in the parlor. She needed to rest her feet a bit."

He feels, half-heartedly, that he should offer a shoulder for Roy to lean on, but, soldier that he is, Roy straightens up, takes a breath, and steps through the door with shoulders square. No one notices—or at least they all have the courtesy to pretend otherwise—and Roy exhales, eyes focused on the floor. He still holds the lighter tight between his fingers, little flashes of silver catching Ed's gaze now and again.

Winry is alone, but someone's brought her a glass of water and a plate of little pastries. She smiles at seeing them and Ed smiles back, half-relieved, before realizing that Roy is no longer beside him.

He must have looked up at some point, and landed his gaze squarely across the room, on an over-large portrait of Riza Hawkeye. Ed can't remember if he himself had noticed it until now—the führer had been standing in front of it, with his coterie of hangers-on, and Ed had always done his utmost to never again attract the attention of military men. Maybe there'd been a curtain draped across it.

It is clearly a depiction of Riza—blonde hair, brown eyes, pointed nose and chin, sharp jaw—but something about it is fundamentally, _unshakably_ , flawed. He remembers a piercing gaze that could read a room and every man's intentions in ten seconds flat, a quirk at the corners of her mouth that betrayed the arrival of a rare smile, and a squareness to her shoulders, as though she couldn't fathom any posture but parade rest. The woman in the portrait wears Riza's face, but she _isn't_. Distant, demure, wrapped in some old-fashioned frock the color of sour milk. This woman sees nothing, feels nothing—sits silent and unblemished, pressed like a dead flower between sheets of cracked wax paper.

"Why?"

Roy is ash—unable to break the painting's stare, knuckles white, swallowing hard against the tears watering his eyes. Gracia materializes at his elbow, arms ready to brace him from dropping like a stone.

"The führer wanted it out for display," she says quietly. "I tried to tell him no."

"All her pictures—"

"They're safe. We'll put them back up."

"It's not real."

His voice breaks barely over a whisper, and Ed looks away, half-ashamed and unsure why. It seems most of the guests had the same instinct—only Breda and General Armstrong are watching, silently angry in their own separate ways.

"That's enough for today," Gracia says. "You don't have to do anything else. Let's just go upstairs, alright?"

He is, in so many ways, diminishing by the second. He speaks to no one as they move back through the parlor to the hall, and Ed has a vision suddenly of a hammer suspended by spider silk above a sheet of glass.

Winry slides her arms around his shoulders as he sits heavily on the cushion beside her.

"Everybody said the service was nice," she tells him.

"But it wasn't her?"

He feels her shrug and leans into it.

"Funerals are more for the people left behind. They've always been."

A door closes somewhere upstairs, and Breda crosses the floor, seizing the painting at the corners. It lifts awkwardly, and he turns it to lean face-down against the wall, exposing an expanse of white paint and a series of empty nails.

The house empties in a trickle not long after—enough will be taking the same train back to Central that any residual mourning can be wrapped up at the station. Havoc takes up the mantle of awkwardly gracious host, shaking hands at the door and thanking each guest for their exit. Rebecca gathers Winry up to deal with the kitchen. They've been eating small plates all day, with no time to stop for a proper meal.

"Come on," Breda says to Ed. "Let's put things back the way they were."

The portrait goes first—they carry it into the cellar together, to the pile of paper wrapping and snapped twine that had clearly been protecting it from view.

"When was this made?" Ed asks, draping the scraps as best he can.

"Couple years ago, I think. I guess he had one made of her mom once. Riza hated this thing."

"They didn't put in the scar on her neck."

"Does that surprise you?" Breda sighs.

"No."

The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling is set too high up—the shadow of a floor joist cuts sharply across the face, from cheek to cheek.

"I'd hate it too," Ed mutters.

There's several couches and tables to carry up and arrange, rugs to unroll, and lamps to dust off and plug in. Sunset floods the room as Ed adjusts the final cushion, frowning, and Breda stands at the empty wall with a handful of photo frames.

"I don't know what order they were in," he says, when Ed joins him.

"Does it matter?"

"I think it did."

They try—the position of each nail gives a hint at the pattern, but something in the arrangement is definitely wrong to Ed's eye. The muted swirl of colors, when viewed from a distance, are unbalanced, but he can't think how to fix them. There isn't even a common theme in the photos themselves to act as guide: flowers, rainy street scenes, crowded bars, books spilling from shelves all take equal space in simple frames. Breda gives up with a shrug.

"That's gotta be good enough."

Dinner is stew and bread at the table where Elicia's left out her paintings to dry.

"I'm going to give one to Herman," she says, kneeling on her seat to reach equal height with the adults.

"Can I have one?" Ed asks.

"If you pay me," Elicia says with a shrug.

"Hey, I have to save money for the baby."

"That's not true. Uncle Roy says you're _loaded_."

Breda laughs, and smiles slip across a few other faces.

"You were an alchemist like him," Elicia accuses. "And he said alchemists get lots of money from the military, so you've got lots of money to pay me."

"Darling, _please_ ," Gracia scolds, biting down her own smile. "It's rude to discuss money at dinner."

"Someone's gotta fund that tuition," Havoc says quietly.

Winry reaches beneath the table and squeezes Ed's hand. He wonders if she's thinking too of similar quiet moments of levity after a hard day of mourning. After Mom's funeral, Granny had made them dinner and tucked them in and read funny stories from the newspaper until they all fell asleep. He'd felt wrong laughing, but it helped some.

Havoc and Rebecca are sorting through stacks of condolence cards and telegrams at the opposite end of the table, organization as soothing instinct. One pile is for strangers, diplomats, and sycophants—and a much smaller pile for the few that merit response, although Ed doubts Roy will be writing them himself.

"Poor kid," Havoc sighs, setting another telegram on the response pile.

"Fuery?" Breda says, and Havoc nods.

"Where is he?" Ed asks.

"Middle of the Aerugian sea. Testing long-range communications. Still has six months on the tour."

"That's awful."

Havoc nods at the piles.

"Especially now."

Having picked the chair nearest the hall, Ed is the one to see the front door creak open, though Havoc hastily excuses himself to greet the newcomer—a large, stately-looking woman wrapped in black furs and a veiled hat, who sets down a pair of polished cases and envelopes Havoc in a hug.

"That rotten bastard had all the rail lines shut down like he was the only one who needed to be here. Where's my boy?"

"Upstairs."

"His mom," Breda says quietly, to Ed's unasked question. "Call her Christine."

She leaves her bags for Havoc and takes each step heavily.

There's no call for nightcap. Everyone is tired—Gracia collects plates as though to wash them, but Breda stops her.

"This isn't important. It can wait for morning."

Elicia leads Ed and Winry upstairs to their room: a study at the end of the floor, with desk and chairs pushed against the wall to make room for a low bed. A fireplace is set between the windows, but only as facade. The grate has been bricked over, and the old opening covered by a decorative screen.

"Mommy and me are next door," she says. "Other side's a bathroom and then Uncle Roy's room. You got enough blankets?"

"We'll be alright," Winry replies for him. Elicia kisses them both on the cheek and closes the door—she has to use both hands and walks backwards to manage the weight.

Ed can't find sleep. Winry hardly has a choice in the matter, barely settling on the mattress before she's out. He doesn't mind, though, loving the sweet openness of relaxation that smoothes every wrinkle of worry from her brow. He sets a hand on her belly to check, but really he hopes the baby will let her sleep.

Unfamiliar houses at night always seem to belong to another world entirely—he steps with care, knowing he has no chance of predicting which footfall might produce a creak. Every door is pulled shut, and there's no sliver of light beneath any to betray whether he's less alone than he feels.

Breda took the the sitting room for himself, and Ed hesitates at the top of the stairs, waiting in a long silence until the radio is switched off, and the rustle of fabric and cushions has stilled. He will not be able to explain to anyone who asks what he is doing, or why it must be done _now_ , when stillness has closed over the house.

He at least remembers that the door to the basement is inside the kitchen, and that a box of matches is sitting beside the oil lamp at the bottom of the steps. It's as cold as he'd expect, and he curses himself a bit for not bringing shoes. His automail foot might not mind, but the flesh one is burning on the dusty flagstones.

The portrait has already shed some of its paper veil—there must be a draft down here—and the peaks and valleys of paint pick up the lamp's approaching glow and begin to glitter.

Again, he thinks, it's not really Riza. Just the ideal of her: a porcelain mask with her lips and nose and something like the serious tilt of her brow. He'd only seen her hair down a handful of times—never styled in such old-fashioned curls. The dress as well is an oddity, lace and low-cut and gathered at her shoulders in little puffed sleeves. It reminds him a bit of Winry at five, in the church dress she ruined with mud.

Too much is missing. That thick line of flesh on her neck which stretched from ear to clavicle, the little spray of freckles perched at the end of her nose. She even had a thin scar on her cheek—he presses a finger to that stretch of canvas, knowing it's wrong, knowing that he is diminishing what was intended as perfection. But hadn't Breda said she hated it? And _of course_ she would, knowing better than anyone the futility of hiding from all the ugly little truths she had to carry with her every day.

Ed wishes the artist had painted her looking away. The effect of unreality is greatest in her eyes, _its_ eyes, with that dead stare straight forward, soulless and immobile. He would expect the sensation of being tracked—but shifting left and right, the pupils don't seem to move. Fixed, forever. He wants to look over his own shoulder, seek from the shadows what must be lurking, what _must_ be holding that frozen gaze, but he won't.

She looked like this and _not_ like this at the end, he's certain—though he couldn't bear the idea of asking, when the memory of his mother's face is swimming so close beneath the surface. The stitched-shut eyes, the puffy dusting of powder to hide her already sinking features, the hands linked by fingers that were too stiff to bend right. It fills him with an aching hollow to think of Riza the same way. Like a scissors set beneath his ribcage and sawing straight across.

He cannot remember the last thing he said to her—it may have been as simple as _good night_.

Before leaving, he turns the portrait to face the wall, letting the shreds of paper spread limply across the floor beneath.

Only an hour of rest—then he's up again, defeated, braiding back his hair and sliding uncomfortably into yesterday's clothes. The sky outside is just beginning to gray, and he doesn't want to bother anyone with running water. Breda's still asleep in the sitting room. His snore rattles the glass a little, and Ed smiles, nudging into the kitchen door.

Someone else is awake. The coffee on the stove is warm, and there's fresh crumbs of bread beside the butter dish. An apple core, perfectly cylindrical and neat, rests upright on the counter, just beginning to brown. But nothing else in the kitchen is disturbed—the chairs are pushed in, the dishes stacked in the sink, the empty jars lining every window sill sparkle with dust. Ed takes an apple for himself and pours a cup of coffee, not bothering to reheat it first.

The house seems to have gotten smaller somehow, overnight. The steps between the study upstairs and the basement could have covered a quarter mile, but now he hesitates even to lean against a table, as though the smallest scrape of sound will jolt everyone sleeping on the other side of a fragile curtain.

Haze dabbles the garden. The sun will have to work its way up through the trees, so lingering shadows fill the lawn like fallen leaves. Ed stands as close to the windows as he can, staring blankly through the mottled glass, thinking of nothing.

It takes a moment to notice the little bistro table sitting outside, one of its chairs askew on mossy flagstone. There's a mug on the table, and an empty plate, and half a folded newspaper spilling from the cushion. Early risers always seeking solitude of some kind—he can smile at this, knowing it now so intimately himself.

From the right, Hayate suddenly enters the frame, trotting purposefully, sniffing out a path. And, behind him, swinging a stick to throw and be fetched, is Roy: gaunt, pale, grayed out and wavering through the window, like a branch caught beneath rushing waters. He whistles, and tosses the stick high, and then he returns to the chair and the table, neatening up his discards and pulling a thick leather satchel Ed hadn't noticed, from the seat of the unused chair.

Their eyes meet through the window, and Roy raises a hand, either greeting or goodbye. Grateful he'd thought to put on his shoes, Ed crosses quickly into the hall and then outside, breathing the dewy air deep and coughing.

"Hey," he says, wary.

"Hey," Roy replies. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No. I didn't sleep much."

Ed feels the sting of rudeness. What does that _matter_? Roy only nods, and Ed half-expects his head to shear from his neck completely, like tearing wet cardboard.

"I didn't want to bother anyone," Roy says. "They all did so much yesterday. Figure they need their rest."

"What about you?"

Roy glances down at the satchel, slung over his opposite shoulder. There's something inside, something bulky and solid.

"That part hasn't hit me," he says. "I know it's coming. Grief is exhausting, and your body doesn't know what to do _but_ sleep—but I'm not there."

The _yet_ doesn't come. They stare at each other, fifteen feet apart, shoes sponging up every bit of water clinging to the grass. Ed feels a knot balling up in his stomach, and Hayate comes trotting back from the brush, happily depositing the stick at Roy's feet and leaning against his leg with a contented huff. Roy's fingers drum against whatever's in that satchel.

"Listen—" he says, and stops himself with a grimace. "There's something I need to do."

Ed's fingers go cold. He shoves them into his pockets, hoping to hide the blanch.

"Could I come with?" he asks, knowing either answer is pointless to his intentions.

"Yeah," Roy says, as a little awful smile flits across his mouth. "I think she'd like that."

They go on wordlessly. Roy leads, stepping into the brush while Hayate gallops back and forth, more interested in the worried birds than the stick Ed helplessly tosses ahead. A twinging part of him worries about poison oak, so he follows almost directly in Roy's wake, figuring he'll at least get _some_ warning this way.

The trees rise up fast around them, dense almost as soon as they leave the lawn. It's not too dissimilar from the forests at home, if a bit thicker, and Ed is warmed by the sudden rush of memory, of trailing along behind his mother while she scoured the forest floor for blackberries.

Distantly, crows scream themselves awake and are answered by the trill of songbirds irritated at the interruption. Vaguely, Ed can see rodents scampering through the branches and starting fights over the meaty rinds of not-quite-ripe walnuts. The branches overhead protected everyone from the night's rain, and the air as well feels thinner and cooler threading through his lungs.

Roy stops suddenly and points up.

"Do you know what that is?" he asks, and Ed can see a small, sturdy lashing of planks jutting out from a tree, maybe fifteen feet up. No ladder, but the greenish remains of rope hang from one corner, hinting at past ascensions.

"No," he says.

"It's a deer blind."

Roy is smiling, eyes fixed on the wood.

"She built it. And then it collapsed, so she built it again until it stayed up. She never had anyone to tell her how—she learned it all in books. What to do."

"How old was she?"

"I think seven or eight. It was before I met her, anyway."

Ed feels a little strange for having assumed the place belonged to Mustang—which of course made little sense in the context of Mustang's money and the sparse living style Ed had seen of Hawkeye's apartment in Central and, later, her quarters up at Briggs. He'd always felt a kind of kinship in pragmatism with her.

Of course Roy is city-bred—it shows mostly obvious in his shoulders and the casual disregard of his stride. He's moved a few steps, close enough to rest a hand on the tree's mossy bark.

"Sometimes I'd climb up with her, when I was bored or her father was in one of his moods. I'm sure I always ruined hours of work—drove every animal in a square mile far away with the noise I made climbing up. But she liked it. She'd ask me to read sometimes. So I'd bring whatever text I was studying and just drone. I don't know how it didn't drive her crazy."

"I didn't know that."

"What?"

"You grew up together."

Roy shrugs.

"Sort of. I asked her father to take me on as his apprentice in alchemy, and he agreed."

Ed cranes his neck up, as though he could see the top of the blind with just a shift of perspective.

"Sometimes I'd bring her food, if she'd been out a while. We'd climb down at night, and she'd always stop to check her traps before going. I never understood how she could see, but I think she just had it memorized."

Roy laughs a little—he looks down, and Ed follows, seeing now the narrow, clear path of dirt sheltered by overgrown weeds. They turn back and walk on, and Roy eagerly points out various landmarks that barely rise above the overgrowth. A split-rail fence where she used to walk and balance and then overtip in his waiting arms, a jagged boulder which marks the end of the property in only a technical sense, a tree that forks half-dead and points on one end to a deep pool.

"She said we couldn't go too far," he says, pausing to whistle Hayate back. "I never found out why, but I think she was just messing with me. She did that a lot. I knew nothing, and I was a fun target for teasing."

He breathes deep, with a ragged half-smile.

"We're almost there," he says. "Over left."

The path slopes down and turns craggy—Ed follows Roy's cautious lead in picking his way down the jutting stones and roots. Somewhere very nearby, a creek is whispering its way through pebbles. Roy stops about ten feet down the incline, jostling between the satchel and Hayate's thumping tail, and he pulls aside a section of hanging leaves.

"Here," he says, nodding at Ed to step through first.

On the other side of the curtain is a strange, squat room lined in crumbling stone and mortar. A few wood beams remain of a roof, and flowered ivy grows thick as thatch across. Part of the collapsed wall on the eastern side forms a narrow shelf, and Ed can see a series of dirty glass jars and small animal bones strewn across it as decoration. The stream must be nearby—it echoes quietly around his ears.

The floor is half stone and half dirt, pitted with moss and soft under every step. Pollen perfumes the air, and the haze of coming sun swamps the small space.

He feels—enveloped. Warm, solid, as though the air could take shape and form itself into comfort. The quiet here is reverent, a stillness so close to the peace of an undisturbed pond moments before a pebble stumbles from the shore and breaks the surface.

"What is this?" Ed breathes.

"It used to be a mill," Roy says, dodging. He nudges a patch of moss, revealing the cool glisten of old leaves beneath. Decay, but a sweetness of promised renewal. These ruins sit untouched by rot.

"A mill?"

"Probably a hundred years ago. They dammed the river up in town, and all the little creeks like this one dried up. You can still see the wheel outside."

He points, and then indicates the shadow of a long pole past their feet.

"They'd hook a donkey to a harness, and he'd drag the wheel into the water and out, as they needed."

Roy goes silent, and Ed nods.

It's a nice place—this deep in the woods, truly indistinguishable from home. Here, Ed can conjure the memories of stick forts he'd built with Al as easily as if he could step back through that curtain of vine and find his baby brother, mud-splattered and impatient to play.

"This was her temple," Roy says quietly. His voice is thick—he's staring down at the leather satchel on his hip, and Hayate leans patiently against his leg. "When she was little, they taught her about Xerxes—how they had a hundred gods, and all the gods had temples. But she got it wrong. She thought—she thought that the people built the temples first, and then waited for the gods to show up."

There's the slightest streak of blackening against one wall—a fire she built as she built the blind? Where she might have sat and she might have watched, willing the effort to be something less than vain?

"So she made this. She'd used it before, as a place to rest during a hunt or as a shelter when her father was in one of his moods. But she thought it would do good as a temple—she planted those vines and cleared space, and tried to assemble an altar."

Even now, gone, Ed cannot picture her as anything but the woman she was. Full grown, she parts the veil and passes through, solid determination painting her face as she gently twists the flowering vines around the roof beams, as she gathers wildflowers into the glass jars, as she arranges the littlest bones into the vague shape of an invented summoning ritual.

"But no one ever came, of course. So she gave up on it. She kept using the place because she needed it, but she said it sometimes felt a little like failure. When she first brought me here, and told me, there was so much disgust for herself in her voice… but I thought it was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard."

The satchel unbuckles beneath his careful fingers, and then Roy is lifting a small vase into the air—a flat, reflectionless glaze stoppered with a dark wood lid. No bigger than a milk jug, and hefted so perfectly in the cradle of Roy's palm. He catches Ed's stare and nods.

"Yeah. She told me, when it came down to it, what happened after was my choice. Funerals and burials—she said whatever it was, I'd be the one who had to live with it. When she wanted to come back here, to—"

The tiniest little split. It _had_ happened, it _was_ happening, even now. Even with all that she was, contained in so small a space.

"To die," Roy finishes, as though the word might pull all his insides out. "I knew immediately this is what I wanted."

"Did you tell the old man?"

"No," Roy says. "He thinks he buried her next to her mother and the man they both hated. He has no right to this."

A sentiment Ed can find no fault in.

"I always thought we'd…"

A tear escapes, twisting towards the corner of Roy's mouth and then disappearing down his chin.

"I thought if we had a daughter, we'd bring her here."

He rotates the urn around in his hands, gently caressing the surface.

"This is where you should be," he says to it, and then steps forward, clearing a little space between the jars and bones, and he nestles the urn at the center.

The sun follows them back to the house, tracing their steps and silence. Even from the edge of the lawn, Ed can see movement inside the kitchen. Winry will still be asleep, and hopefully it's early enough that no one will have thought of sending a search party.

Roy pauses at the table on the patio, still with its dirty plate and folded newspaper.

"I wonder," he says, "if I could ask you a favor."

"Anything."

Too quick—Ed winces, hoping it won't fester into regret.

"She spent a lot of time writing. Towards the end."

"Memoirs?"

"Some of it."

Slowly, imperceptible maybe from the right distance, Roy is beginning to crumble. It's over, and it's just starting to catch up with him. Without a thought, Ed sets one hand on his shoulder and the other on his arm, and he guides Roy to sit in the empty chair, clearing the cushion of the other for himself.

"She had so many ideas," Roy says. "Things she wanted to say, things she _wanted_. Not for herself—for everyone. The future of the country."

The last he says like he's quoting something. Tears fill his eyes and spill over—more blind now than when he crossed through the Gate, all those years ago. Ed wonders, idly, fleeting, if she'll wait for him there, if she'll rise and meet him with hand outstretched, all time and distance collapsed to the infinite they still step through and see together.

"I can't look at it. Not yet."

A ray of light hits his eyes directly, and Roy blinks, shutting it out for only a moment.

"But it's not right to hide it. Everything she wrote is important, and people should see it."

The door behind them opens: Gracia steps outside with a cup of coffee, approaching them slowly.

"I had ulterior motives putting you and Winry in the study."

"So you need an editor?" Ed asks.

"Only if you're willing."

"I'm honored that you asked."

Gracia crosses to his side, glancing at the empty bag between his feet.

"So it's done?" she says, rubbing gently between his shoulders.

"Yeah. Ed came with."

"It was beautiful," Ed says with a nod. "It felt like the right place."

"I'm glad."

"I'm tired," Roy sighs. "I think I'm going to sleep now."

He rises with a sudden heaviness, as though his center of gravity has suddenly rushed upwards above his heart. Hayate curls along beside him, a brace to rest against once or twice on the long walk back inside the house.

Everyone else is up and filtering through the various rooms, maintaining a reverent silence. Even Winry, having folded the bed linens neatly at each corner before heading into the bathroom. Through the walls, Ed can hear alternately the thrumming chant of water rushing through the pipes and the indecipherable murmur of Elicia's voice.

He closes the door and crosses to the desk pushed up against the wall. Too dark or too distracted last night to notice, he sees now the cascade of papers spread across its surface.

This cannot be disturbed just yet—he feels this commandment sharply, so instead he simply looks. Leaning over, scanning his gaze across the jumbled words, picking up only flashes of the sentiments contained within. A torn shred, somewhat standing free of the pile, makes him turn his head against his shoulder to read more closely.

It's a list—of titles, by his guess. _Anarchist from the Deathbed_ , _Non Omnis Moriar_ , _Rights of the Amestrian Citizen_ : strong, stout, even a little seditious.

The chair is still pulled out a little ways, and with a bit of effort, he manages to sit without moving it. The window on his right pours sunlight across the desk top. A pen lies between his hands, he realizes, tossed against a seam of parchment and then rolled back to rest in a crease, sideways, careless of a dribble of ink, as though any moment she might return and take it up again.

He sets his fingers along the grooves—she was right-handed, and held the tip between three fingers, leaving her little finger to trail on the page, to guide the lilt of her writing.

He holds it just the same. He breathes. He pulls the first, the _last_ , of her words forward, and he begins to read.

* * *

And did you get what  
you wanted from this life, even so?  
I did.  
And what did you want?  
To call myself beloved, to feel myself  
beloved on this earth.

"Late Fragment" by Raymond Carter


End file.
